I bought a secondhand Ford Focus and, while cleaning the interior, I found a small notebook tucked under the front seat it belonged to the previous owner.
Are you kidding me, James? Seriously? The whole team spent three months on this project and now you say the concept has changed?
I stood in the managers office, fists clenched until the knuckles turned white. Nigel Hargreaves, a bulky man with a perpetually scowling face, didnt even look up from his paperwork.
James, cut the drama. The client can change their mind; we have to adapt. This is business, not a hobby club.
Adapt? Thats not adapting, thats tearing everything up and starting from scratch! All the calculations, all the documentation into the bin? People have been losing sleep over this!
They got paid for the overtime. If anyones unhappy, HR runs from nine to five. You can leave now. Im not holding you.
I turned and walked out, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. Colleagues gave me sympathetic looks as I grabbed my jacket and fled into the damp October air. Enough, a voice hammered in my temples. Enough. I stalked away, angry at the boss, the client, the whole system. I was fed up being at the mercy of other peoples whims, of the cramped bus timetable, of everything. I needed something of my own, however small a slice of personal space where no one could shove in a new concept.
That thought led me to the sprawling usedcar market on the edge of Manchester. I wandered between rows of battered vehicles, having no real idea of what I was looking for. Shiny foreign saloons sat beside battered veterans of the British motor industry. Then I saw her: a modest, cherryred Focus, about seven or eight years old, but polished as if cherished.
Interested? a cheery thirtysomething salesman said, flashing a smile. Great car. One previous owner, driven carefully, mostly commuter work. No smokers, mileage genuine.
I walked around the car, peered inside. It was clean, not sterile. It felt lived in, not just a box to get from point A to point B. I settled into the drivers seat, hands on the cool plastic, and for the first time that day I felt the tension ease.
Ill take it, I said, surprising even myself with the certainty.
The paperwork took a couple of hours. Soon I was cruising through the evening streets in my own car my own. The word mine warmed my chest. I turned on the radio, cracked the window to let the crisp air in. Life suddenly seemed less bleak.
I parked in the driveway of my old council flat, sat there for a long while, adjusting to the new sensation. Then I decided the car needed a proper clean, as if to erase any trace of the former owner. I bought cleaning supplies, cloths and a handheld vacuum from the 24hour Tesco, and went back to the car.
I polished everything to a shine: dashboard, door panels, windows. When I got to the space under the seats, my hand brushed something hard. I pulled out a small notebook bound in dark blue. A diary.
I turned it over, feeling a twinge of awkwardness. It was a strangers life, a strangers secrets. I thought about tossing it onto the back seat and forgetting it, but something stopped me. The first page bore a tiny, tidy script: Ethel. Just a name. I opened to the first entry.
12 March.
Today Tom yelled again. Over something trivial Id forgotten his favourite yoghurt. Sometimes I feel like Im living on a powder keg. One wrong step, one misplaced word and it blows. Then he comes over, hugs me, says he loves me, that its just been a hard day. I believe him, or I pretend to. This cherryred little car is my only escape. I turned the radio up and drove wherever my eyes could see. Just me and the road. No one shouting.
I set the diary aside, a strange unease settling over me. I could almost picture Ethel behind the wheel, sad eyes, fleeing the storms at home. I kept reading.
2 April.
Another fight. This time about my job. He hates that I stay late. Proper women stay home and bake pies, he said. I dont want to bake pies. I love my work, numbers, reports. I want to feel useful beyond the kitchen. He cant understand. He threatened to go to my boss if I dont quit. Humiliating. In the evening I went to The Old Orchard Café, sat alone, sipped coffee and watched the rain. It was soothing. The scones were wonderful.
I pictured The Old Orchard a small, cosy spot not far from my flat, big windows letting the drizzle in. I imagined Ethel there, alone, watching the droplets race down the glass.
The days that followed blurred. By day I was at work, arguing with Nigel, by night I was devouring the diary. I learned Ethel loved autumn, jazz and the novels of Remarque. She dreamed of learning to paint, but Tom dismissed it as childish dabbling. She had a close friend, Sophie, who could talk for hours on the phone.
18 May.
Good day. Tom was away on a business trip. Silence was a blessing. Sophie called, we bought wine and fruit and stayed up talking until midnight, laughing like teenagers. She told me I should leave Tom. Ethel, hell swallow you whole, youre fading away. I know shes right, but where would I go? No parents, his flat is my home. Im thirtyfive. Sophie says age isnt a barrier; its just a new start. Easy for her, she has a husband whos a goldmine.
I inhaled a sigh. The fear was familiar. I was fortytwo, and the idea of a radical change made my bones tremble. Id lived on a familiar track work, home, occasional meetups with my mate Simon. Now this car and this diary felt like a crossroads.
On Saturday I couldnt hold it in any longer and went to The Old Orchard. I took a seat by the window, ordered coffee and a slice of cake the one I imagined Ethel loved. I stared at the empty chair opposite, trying to picture her. Sometimes a tall blonde, sometimes a petite brunette, but always sad eyes.
The entries grew darker.
9 July.
He raised his hand to me for the first time. Because Id spoken to Sophie on the phone instead of him when he called. Just a slap, but it cracked something inside me not my face, but my soul. I spent the whole night in the car outside my flat, unable to go back inside. The lights flickered on and off in his windows. He was probably looking for me. Or maybe not. It was terrifying and lonely. If it werent for my cherry car, I think I would have gone mad.
I set the diary down, a knot of outrage tightening in my chest. I wanted to find Tom and I didnt even know what to do. Just protect her. The woman Id never met.
That evening Simon rang.
James, mate! Where have you vanished to? Gone fishing for the weekend?
Hey, Simon. Cant say, too many things on my plate.
What things? You havent even taken a holiday. Whats this mystery? Bought a fancy kit and disappeared?
I laughed.
Almost. Listen, theres something
I told him about the car, the diary, Ethel. He listened in silence.
Youve got yourself into a proper mess, he finally said. Youre digging into someone elses life. Do you really need that?
I dont know. I just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for Tom. That was ages ago. She mightve married a millionaire by now and forgotten about that Tom. And youre sitting here, pining. Dump the notebook.
I cant, I admitted.
Then keep it. Just dont let it ruin you. Call me if you need anything.
Simons words didnt sober me up. If anything, they made me want to finish reading, to see how it all ended.
The entries grew shorter, more fragmented. Ethel seemed to be at her breaking point.
1 September.
Summer ended, and so did my patience. Today he smashed a vase my mother had given me the last thing I owned from her. He called it tasteless, said it clashed with his designer décor. I gathered the shards and realised that was it. The end. I couldnt stay.
15 September.
Im plotting an escape. Like a spy film, half comic, half terrifying. Sophie will let me crash at her place for a while. Im slowly moving my books, a couple of sweaters, my favourite lipstick the precious bits. Tom is oblivious, too busy with himself. Ive signed up for an evening watercolour class that starts in October. Maybe its a sign?
28 September.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I leave. Hes off to a conference for two days. Ill have the chance to collect the rest of my things and go. Ive handed in my resignation. A new life begins. Ill buy an easel, paints, and start painting autumn yellow leaves, grey sky, and my cherry car in the rain. Its my symbol of freedom. Im scared to bits. What if I fail? What if he finds me? Staying is scarier.
That was the last entry. I turned the page blank. The next one, blank as well, and so on until the diary ran out.
I sat in the quiet of my tiny kitchen, wondering what had become of her. Had she managed to leave? Did Sophie find a flat for her? Had she started painting? Dozens of questions swirled. It felt as if Id watched a TV series to the very end, only to have the finale cut away.
I reread the final pages, and then I noticed something Id missed. Between the last entries was a tiny, folded receipt.
It was from The Artists Supply on Manchesters Oldham Road, dated 29 September. It listed: a set of watercolour paints, brushes, paper, a small tabletop easel.
So she had bought them. She was preparing.
The diary was from the previous year exactly a year ago.
What now? I could try to find her. But how? Ethel, no surname. Only a friend named Sophie. Little to go on. And why? To intrude on a new life she might have built? To remind her of the past?
I set the diary aside. A week slipped by. I argued with Nigel, drove to work, returned home. Yet everything felt different. The world seemed larger. I started noticing the little things: sunlight glinting in puddles, leaves turning golden on the plane trees, the baristas smile at the corner café. I was seeing the world through Ethels eyes, the simple life she craved.
One evening, aimlessly scrolling through news feeds, I stumbled on an announcement: Autumn Vernissage Emerging Artists of Manchester. Among the participants was an Ethel Wood. My heart quickened. I clicked. A modest online gallery opened, showing her works landscapes, stilllifes, portraits. One painting caught me: a cherryred Focus parked under a drizzlesoaked street, rendered in delicate watercolour, both melancholic and hopeful.
I smiled. She had made it. She had left. She was painting. She was living.
I found Ethel Woods profile on Instagram. Her avatar showed a cheerful thirtyfiveyearold with a short bob and bright eyes, standing beside her canvases. No sign of Tom, no trace of the turmoil. Her feed was filled with exhibition photos, snapshots of her cat, sketches of city streets. Pure, quiet, creative life.
Relief flooded me, as if a weight had lifted. I didnt message her, didnt send a friend request. Her story was closed, happily. I simply closed the page.
I picked up the diary again. It was no longer just a collection of strangers secrets; it was a testament to courage that its never too late to change everything.
The next day, after work, I stopped at The Artists Supply. I lingered among the aisles, then bought a small canvas and a set of oil paints. Id never painted before, but an urgent need to try seized me.
Back home I set the canvas on my kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto a palette, and took up a brush. I had no idea what would emerge perhaps a ruined canvas, perhaps the start of my own story, inspired by the voice of a woman Id never met, whose diary Id found under the seat of a cherryred car.
Rain began to patter against the window. Everyone has their own road and their own autumn. Sometimes, to find our path, we have to stumble into someone elses.
